Segue
by dawnsfire
Summary: So Booth has amnesia. Hopefully a somewhat unique take on recovering memories. EitB spoilers--ooooh, shocker!


Ahem. This little tale assumes Booth has amnesia (yes, I know what HH said, but I started this before he said anything). If nothing else, it's a fun bunny to play with.

The second of my EitB stories. Any and all medical and/or procedural errors are mine; the characters are not!

I should also mention that Mickey Boggs looked this over--thanks!

* * *

_"…to remember is to live"--Samuel Butler_

I shifted uneasily next to Agent Perotta; somehow I knew that the passenger side was not mine, and sitting here chafed me. On the other hand, I had been chauffeured around a lot for the last six months, give or take, so no one could say I wasn't getting used to it. Didn't change my feelings, though.

And there was a good reason to stifle my opinions on this. She knew where we were going. I didn't.

"This is our best lead so far, Booth," she told me, not taking her eyes off the road. "But it's not a very good one. And I shouldn't have brought you along!"

That was the other reason not to complain about being in the grandma seat. "I understand," I told her, and I did. Since my surgery and subsequent amnesia, I had been given mostly desk jobs, despite the fact that I had quickly regained my ranking on the gun range. Once in a while, I was permitted on an interview or a crime scene to observe the squints doing their thing. One thing I rediscovered was how much I hated those gloves; another was that I apparently had a very strong stomach, since I didn't throw up at the sight of decomposing, mutilated, maggot-infested bodies. But it was good to be _doing _something, no matter how limited, besides riding a desk.

That had changed with the current case, one the media dubbed the Costume Killer. Some sicko with the habit of dressing his victims in elaborate costumes and leaving them in various places around the city. (A city I was still learning--or relearning--my way around. Making a third reason I wasn't driving.) They needed every available pair of hands, and so I got dragged into it as well.

The real problem was that there was no pattern. The ten vics we had found were female and under 50, but that was it; the bodies had been left in parks, alleys, even once at a monument; hanging from trees, sitting on benches, lying on the grass. No set method for snatching them, either--sometimes there was evidence of a fight or assault, others simply vanished from their beds or cars. Dr. Hodgins said the costumes themselves were a mix of cheap and expensive, possibly custom-made, materials; and the cosmetics were common drug-store stuff or Halloween makeup. Even how this bastard seemed to pick a costume seemed frustratingly random. Sometimes it seemed like a reflection of the victim's identity, other times the complete opposite. That kid psychiatrist was just as baffled as the rest of us.

I still shouldn't be here, I wasn't an active agent on the case, but Dr. Brennan--Bren--_Temperance_--was missing. Consensus was that she was the latest victim of the bastard; the details of her disappearance matched the few we had from the other cases, and the timing was too--pat. All we had found was blood and her bag outside her building. Her body had yet to surface. I hoped that was because she was still alive. She was so good to me in the hospital, I know we worked together closely in the past… Well, she told me that, told me we were partners; _everyone _told me that.

The look in her eyes when I had to admit I didn't know her would have broken the heart of even the most heartless. That's how I know there was more to us than partnership. Not sure exactly _what_; no one's telling me. The artist--Angela--gave me a knowing look when I asked about it, and told me she couldn't say. Brennan--and I know there was something else I called her; Bren is better than Brennan, but it's still not right--won't discuss that for fear of "prejudicing" me. Her words, not mine.

Everything about her is vaguely familiar though, in the way that dreams are. She doesn't surprise me somehow, though I don't know what she'll do ahead of time. But there's a sense of rightness when I see her, hear her talk about those bones of hers.

It's so _frustrating _to not remember things! I get these little flickers of things, a sense I've been there, seen that, done this…but there's nothing attached to them. It's killing _her_, too, and the rest of her friends. (Mine, too, from what they tell me. But Cam's the only one I remember.) I can see that much, at least. The last thing I remember before waking up to those eyes of hers is owning a nightclub with her. The rest of the details are fuzzy and I guess the whole thing was a dream; something cobbled up from her talking as she wrote while waiting in vigil. 'Cause she writes, too. I have all of her books at my place, so obviously I'm a fan as well as partner.

Before that dream, I remember Rebecca and Parker and being transferred to MCU. I don't remember being assigned to the Jeffersonian. So I'm missing the last four years and a bit. Or so I'm told.

It must be true--Parker is seven, not the three and a half year old boy I remember.

And I have new scars--those four or so years must have been rough. A bullet wound on my chest, a burn on my thigh, a scattering of faded ones that remind me of Monahan's when he was caught at the edge of a bomb blast in Iraq. The doc at the hospital said they shouldn't try to force recall with too many details too fast, so no one's letting me look at my file. Meaning I can't fill in the blanks on my own, either.

But Temperance--Brennan--she's a wonderful woman, beautiful, intelligent, with a strange sense of humor that seems to hook into mine like it does no one else's. Outside of everything else. I'm attracted to her--no, scratch that, I _want _her, and there are times I would swear she wants me. It's not just a physical thing, though, and I can't think of too many women that I've felt that way about. Even with a fragmented memory.

Though most things before five years ago are pretty solid, if a little detached…

That's why I'm in the truck at all--this half-felt connection between me and her. I'd guess even Perotta knows something about it, since she didn't argue the point.

We pulled up in front of an ancient and apparently abandoned farmhouse. _…I'd pick an isolated rural area_, a voice whispered in my head; sounding a lot like my own. Yeah, this was a good place for evil work. No one around for at least three miles in any direction to hear anything, see lights…

The door was closed, but unlocked and once inside, we made our way down a flight of stairs. Perotta hissed when we opened the door at the bottom and saw a long hall lined with doors.

"None of this was on the blueprint."

I grimaced in understanding; we stood there, listening for what seemed to be a long time. I strained to hear _anything_--a rattle, a thump, a cry--but heard nothing. Shrugging at her, I mimed opening the first door. She nodded back and I eased it open.

It was empty, except for chains and manacles hanging from the ceiling; something about that seemed familiar…it wasn't quite right, but I had seen things like that before, hadn't I? Recently?

The next few rooms were just as empty or emptier as the first one. Back near the end of the hall, though, we started to see signs of more recent use. One was filled with costume pieces and props. Another had what I knew were torture instruments and I just about lost it right there, imagining Brennan--any woman--being hurt with any of these things. And they had, of course--all of the bodies found had shown indications of torture under the tidy costumes and masks. The walls of yet another were papered with pictures--presumably his victims. …_I hate the serial killer wall of death_--another whisper of memory. And there were neatly stacked boxes that had to be filled with "souvenirs." I went in to look, Perotta covering me, and growled. I recognized most of the faces from Angela's sketches; the ones not half-pulped, anyway. And Brennan's.

She was still here. I could feel it.

Only two rooms left. If this wasn't the costume guy's place, there were _two _sick bastards running around DC, and I swore I would hunt both of them down and deliver a little summary justice of my own. Rules about vigilantism and desk jockeys be damned.

The first of the two had a woman in it--Perotta checked and nodded; she was breathing, if unconscious and bound. But it wasn't Brennan. I didn't know if I should be happy about that; we didn't know the guy's MO, how many women did he have at a time? She flicked open a knife and gently freed the other woman. At least _she'd _have a fighting chance to escape if everything went pear-shaped.

The last room--I eased open the door, let Perotta in front, same as we had been doing, since her gun was out. I could feel the weight of mine, still holstered and suddenly a comfort. She jerked slightly, back into me, and I almost lost my balance, then my lunch as I saw what she had seen.

Oh God oh God oh God.

Brennan.

Suspended by handcuffs from a hook in the ceiling. Covered in blood I _knew _was hers. Unconscious as well--she was too limp to be anything else.

And _he _was standing in front of her with a knife.

"Freeze! FBI!" Perotta snapped, leveling her gun. "Drop the knife and step away, both hands where I can see them."

Of course he couldn't make things easy on all of us and do what she said. No, he stepped to the side, grabbing Brennan's head and yanking it back so hard my own scalp ached in sympathy.

And the knife was at her throat.

"Don't make things more difficult for yourself, Gayer. Put down the knife," Perotta urged, holding her gun steady. I felt a surge of something at the sight of that battered face and the gleam of silver perilously close to her jugular and, without conscious thought, drew my own piece and fired. Gayer fell, blood pooling from the wound in his arm--just where I had aimed. The knife skittered away somewhere. _Away _from her, that's all I cared about.

I let Perotta handle him; I was too busy lifting Bones from that damned hook. "See if you can find the key to these," I ordered, frantically feeling for a pulse. Please God please God, please let her be alive!

"Bones! Bones, please, wake up," I pleaded softly, pushing her hair from her face. "Bones…"

Her eyelids quivered, as though she was trying to lift them. "Booth?" she whispered, finally cracking them open, and I was ecstatic. But then she coughed and I froze at the fresh blood speckling her lips.

"Yeah, Bones, it's me. Another last minute rescue, huh?" I smiled at her; a rather weak one I knew, but all I could muster. Perotta slid me the key to the cuffs and I unlocked them, wincing at how raw her wrists were.

She tried to smile in return; my heart thumped at the valiant effort, then fell into my stomach as she went limp, eyes drifting closed. "Perotta!" I roared. "Did you--"

"Called it in already! Air evac and two ambulances. Plus back up and forensics are also on their way." She paused. "Booth--"

"What?" I snapped, unable to tear my eyes off my poor Bones.

"I think we got here just in time." Her voice sounded odd, tight.

"Why?"

"He--there's a costume here."

I should have had whiplash the way my head snapped around; she was holding up a geisha mask and wig. On a table in front of her was a vivid pile of blue and red cloth.

"Probably kimono and obi, but I'll wait for forensics," she added, carefully putting it back down on the fabric. "You all right?"

"Yeah. Will be, anyway."

"I'm going to go see about the other woman; let me know if there are any problems."

Her mention of forensics made me think of something and I fumbled open my phone, hitting 4 on the speed dial.

"Saroyan."

"Cam--it's Booth."

"Tell me you found her."

"We did. We're waiting on the air evac and medics. She's been…badly hurt." That was the understatement of the year, but I couldn't go into it just yet. "Listen, I want Hodgins here, too."

************************************************

On the other end of the phone, Cam heard something she hadn't heard from Seeley in months. A note of command, a surety that had been sorely lacking since his surgery.

"Give me the location--I'll send the van. Hodgins and Wendell guaranteed."

"Thanks. I'll call back once Bones is in the hospital." He gave her the location and hung up.

Cam breathed out a long sigh--relief, mostly. "Hodgins! Wendell!" she called, striding out of her office. "Suit up, and I mean _now_! Booth wants you on the scene!"

Her called brought out three people instead of two; Angela followed Hodgins from her office. "They found her?" the artist begged.

"Yes--"

"Oh, thank God," Angela said, sagging against a pillar.

"Booth'll call when they're at the hospital. And…"

"And…?"

"I think he may have recovered his memory."

************************************************

I hovered, I suppose would be the right word, as the medics treated Bones. Words like _intubation _and _pneumothorax _and _potential renal damage _floated past, scaring me. I knew what some of that meant. And all those tubes and wires _before _she even got to the hospital. Not good. Not good at all. But at least I could go with them; nobody was going to keep me here. And they knew where I'd be when they needed my statement.

The other woman, we hadn't even known she was missing yet, was going to be OK, thank God for that as well; she just had to sweat the last of the drugs used to subdue her out of her system. Even the rope burn wasn't that bad. She was lucky that's all he had done--Bones and some of the other victims had been violently attacked, another way this scumbag had been unpredictable--and she knew it, too, judging by the wild-eyed look on her face when they escorted her out into the air.

"Agent Booth--we're ready to go."

"All right--I'll be up in a minute." I just had to let Perotta know I was leaving.

When I got outside, the Jeffersonian van was just pulling up. They must have broken every speed limit, or someone finally figured out how to kit it out with jets. Hodgins hopped out before it even stopped moving and ran up to me. "Booth, man, where's Brennan? Are _you _all right?"

"She's just being loaded," I told him, pointing. "I'm fine, going to ride with her."

He gave me a strange and intent look, then clapped me on the shoulder. "Good," he said. "I gotta see--Ange will kill me otherwise."

He followed me, then turned pale at the sight of Bones. "God," he choked out. "She's still breathing--I can tell Angie that at least."

"She'll survive, Hodgins. She always does."

"She's the best. All right, get going, Booth. I'll make sure we get enough evidence to fry the guy."

I nodded, scrambling into the helicopter, making sure I didn't jostle her stretcher or any of the things attached to her, and strapped in. "Ready to go, guys."

The chopper lifted smoothly, thank God. I locked my eyes on Bones. No better, but no worse, so far as I could tell.

And then it hit me. Bones. I was thinking about her as Bones. Not Brennan, not Bren. Not even Temperance or Tempe. _Bones_. The silly nickname I had bludgeoned her into accepting when we started working together.

I _knew _who she was.

Dr. Temperance Brennan, super-genius, anthropologist. My partner and best friend. Bones, but only to me and my son.

I knew who _I _was, exactly what it meant to be Seeley Booth.

I remembered her blackmailing me in the museum gardens, taunting me to be a cop, laughing over late-night takeout, leaning on my shoulder and leaking slow tears after Zack was exposed, hauling me to the hospital after finding out about my hallucinations. Wanting a baby from me. The first time we had fought, the last time I had felt a stab of desire for her.

I wanted to shout it to the heavens, get down on my knees and thank God, his Blessed Mother, and every single saint I could think of.

Well, I couldn't do any of that now, but I vowed to light a candle as soon as I could. Maybe a whole dozen of them in sheer thanksgiving. Hell, the entire church's worth.

I looked back down. Obviously, she hadn't gone through with the baby-making yet. Was it because I made it, even though I hadn't come out whole? I had told her to use my stuff if I didn't make it. Had she held out that kind of hope for six months and more?

Stupid question, I realized as the helipad came into sight. Yes, she had. Just as I would do for her. It seemed as though it was my turn now--to make sure she survived. I leaned forward as we landed, ignoring the medic, and brushed a kiss over her forehead. "I love you, Bones. You have to survive this for me, for all of us. For that baby you wanted. We will talk," I promised, even though I knew she couldn't hear me.

She was whisked away to X-ray and the OR before I could even climb out; fine by me. The sooner they put her back together, the happier I would be. I called the lab, told Cam we were here, as I had promised, before following.

As I struggled with the forms for Bones' admission, I wasn't at all surprised to have Angela drop into the chair next to me. Max's presence, on the other hand, stunned me. Not sure why--he's her father, after all, and works in the same lab she does.

"Here," he said, holding out his hand as she took the paperwork from me to finish what I couldn't. "Thought you might feel better holding this."

I stared as he let my rosary fall into my hand. Max simply gave me a faint smile and settled back in the chair to wait for news. The old criminal had broken into my place for it, I knew, but how did he know I hadn't been carrying it while amnesiac? I had known that I must have carried all of that--the poker chip, the dice, the rosary--but there hadn't been any sense of connection. Now, I remembered why I carried all those things, and my itchy fingers were glad to hold _something_. Might as well be productive while I waited.

I stopped counting after I said two rosaries, my focus narrowed to the beads sliding through my fingers, so I have no idea how long it was before the surgeon came out. "Agent Booth--?"

"Yeah." I cleared my throat. "That's me."

"Perhaps we should discuss this in private?"

"We'll all come," I told the man. "Max is Dr. Brennan's father and Angela is a close friend."

I could see his confusion, but he nodded and led us to a small office. "We've completed Dr. Brennan's surgery. As you know, she was in dangerously poor shape when she arrived." He began to tell off her injuries on one hand. "She was been badly beaten, probably several rounds, resulting in serious internal injuries. Several of her ribs were cracked or broken, leading to the punctured lung, plus there are fractures on her left ulna and right femur, and parry fractures on her hands. Some of her wounds show signs of infection. It also appears as though she was whipped with something, perhaps an electric cord. Of course, major blood loss as well. She's in a coma for now, which is probably for the best in the short term, to aid her physical recovery."

I felt Angela flinch beside me and Max stiffen on the other side. I made a note to tell the prison to keep an eye out for Max; not that I didn't feel the same, but my duty kept me from beating Gayer to a pulp. Max had none of my reasons for restraint. Not that he'd do it himself, but I was sure he still had…interesting connections inside.

"We've got her in ICU; in a little while, once we're sure she won't crash, you can go in and see her. One at a time, of course. We've got her on antibiotics and a nutrient feed as well as the morphine drip. Rape kit came up negative."

Thank you, Lord, I thought again. Small mercy--but I'll take it.

When they let us in, one at a time, I could barely look at her. A rather unpleasant thought had begun niggling at me while we waited.

She wouldn't have been taken if I had been with her. If I had only regained my memory a few weeks earlier! She'd have been with me, I'd've watched her go inside.

I knew that wasn't true, nor was it my fault. I didn't ask for a tumor, the surgery, amnesia. But I still couldn't help feeling as though I had let her down in so many ways. And it made me want to punch something. I made myself look at her instead--penance for things I couldn't help.

She was deathly pale and horribly still. Only the steady beeping from the monitor told me she was alive. Bruises everywhere, lacerations and incisions neatly stitched or bandaged, and I would swear there were even more machines hooked up to her than before. I recognized the breathing tube from Cam's poisoning; seeing it twisted my stomach even more now than it did then.

Three days later, I sat in her private room, watching her breathe. Assisted breathing, but breathing. The beads slipped through my fingers as I mouthed the prayers. No less fervently meant, but my brain could recite Hail Marys and Our Fathers on automatic as I concentrated on other things.

I didn't want to look at the instruments and IVs she was hooked up to. Instead, I looked at her face, past the fading bruises, and thought about how she would be annoyed that her mother's ring would be evidence for a while. She might be upset about her necklace, too, but it would be the ring that would truly bother her. She'd also probably be upset he got the jump on her.

I also was well aware of the irony, the sheer…capriciousness…of it all. Six months ago, it had been her sitting here, fingers working a laptop instead of a rosary, waiting for her partner and friend (and maybe more?) to wake up. Now, I was the one glued into the chair. Hoping it wouldn't be a true reversal—that she would wake up and know me as I hadn't known her.

I kept looking at her, counting every breath. I didn't quite dare touch her, not yet—I wouldn't know where! But when I finished my current recitation, I took a chance and gently stroked the back of her hand with one finger, avoiding the taped in needle, then slid around to the underside of her wrist. A pulse beat there—fainter than it should be, but there. I didn't exactly relax, but it was a comfort. I wondered if she had occasionally touched me like that to reassure herself. Normally I would say it wasn't her style, but she had changed since we had met. Become softer in a way, more open.

I knew she had talked to me, though.

"Bones, I hope you wake up soon. I really need to talk to you, tell you that my memory's back. Maybe even tell you in detail about that last hallucination? Stewie was kinda funny, now that I think about it." I grimaced. "Or maybe not. Anyway, we found you three days ago. And you've been in the hospital, safe, since then. You can wake up tomorrow and match me day for day. Just say you'll remember me?"

I paused. From something Angela had said, I got the idea that Bones had read from her manuscript as she wrote in my hospital room; unfortunately, I was sure she wouldn't appreciate hearing my repeating the rosary. What else? Couldn't sing to her, didn't know enough about what Parker had been up to in the past week to tell her.

"As I said, Bones, I got my memory back. Didn't even realize it right away, but I think it was when I saw you in that room, hanging from that damn hook. Like when Kenton had you, but worse, much worse. Hodgins and Wendell are making sure all the evidence is there, and Angela and Max came to the hospital right away. How your father knew I didn't have my rosary… Anyway, they're only letting me, Max, and Angela in here right now. Russ knows; he's called every night, looking for updates. Parker's sent you a get well card that he made. They'd all come if they could, and once you wake up, the doctor'll probably let them in. Cam's got everything under control at the lab, so all _you_ have to do is get better."

I rubbed her fingers lightly as I spoke, willing them to move.

"Cullen's been here to talk to me; you'll be glad to know that once I'm vetted by Sweets and go through a refresher course, we can go back to our partnership. I'm looking forward to that, once you're on your feet, that is!"

Her fingers twitched slightly in mine, but when I looked down, nothing had changed. But it seemed to be a positive, so I kept it up, edging into more personal territory.

"Should I say I love you, Bones? Or would that make you pull away and never wake up? Maybe that's what you _need_ to hear. You are loved on so many levels by so many people that you should never have to withdraw like that anymore. I want to love you; I want to share my life with you so much more completely."

I hesitated. "But it's not fair of me to talk about it now. You can't respond, even if you do hear me, and you might doubt my sincerity anyways. Too sudden or something, right? Not long enough after regaining my wits? Maybe, maybe not. But if these kinds of crises can't make us realize what's in our hearts, then what will? How many more do we have to go through before we can look our hearts in the face?"

Her fingers twitched again and I squeezed them gently in response. "So to speak--I know that's not your kind of idiom. Come on, Bones, wake up. You're safe as we can make you—the bastard's been caught, the evidence has been gathered…" I hesitated again. "…I'm your gun, remember? I'll keep you safe as long as necessary."

Now her fingers tightened—or tried to. There was a soft moan, just barely audible over the beeping. I looked down and saw her face scrunch up just before she began to thrash about in the bed, a look of fear? on her face. Of course, I realized. She doesn't know where she is, and there's a tube down her throat and IVs and God knows what all attached to her. She must think it's another form of torture, that the bastard still has her.

"Bones!" Not letting go of her hand, I slapped the call button. "No, Bones, it's all right!" I shifted my grip to her shoulders, gently holding her down as she tried to fight. "Easy. You're safe, in the hospital," I repeated. "Calm down, open your eyes. You're safe. I promise."

Another moan, no louder than the first, but her eyes opened. "Thank God," I breathed, staring into them. "Just hold still, Bones. They've intubated you. Hopefully, the doctor will be here shortly and take it out."

Those sea-grey eyes locked onto mine and she marginally relaxed under my hands. I didn't let go until the doctor arrived, though. And she never looked away.

And I knew there would be no turning back.

* * *

Anybody notice that what we so often write about happening to Brennan actually seems to happen to Booth on the show? Amnesia, being shot, hospital stays, dire illnesses… Just a random thought!


End file.
